Party Planning
by EatCrow
Summary: Your Prompt: Bart buys a lot of junk food in a store where Tim's a cashier. Tim asks about the food, and Bart thinks he's super cute and he gets really embarrassed because he's not actually having a party this is all for him. Bonus: Bart invites Tim to his place after his shift.-(Completed one-shot)


Hi everyone! Long time no post, I blame writer's block, it's evil. I've slowly been crawling my way out by filling prompts. Speaking of evil, just know that as it stands currently, this fic is a one-shot and will stay a one-shot.

This fic was Beta read by the lovely **EthelPhantom**. Go check out her work, she writes so well!

As always feel free to come scream at me over on my Tumblr Eat0crow.

* * *

"Having a party?"

Bart blinks, trying his hardest to _stop_ picking the already cracked skin around his nail. It's not like he can help it, he hates having to go to a register. Cashiers make him nervous, Bart just knows they take one look at his cart and judge every single one of his life choices. Especially during his weekly garbage binge.

Of all days for the self-checkouts to be stuck in card only mode.

"Oh," Bart says, looking up at the cashier for the first time since he got in line and—

Bart blinks again, and again, and maybe, just maybe, a third time for good measure. Who gave Walmart permission to hire models? Satan, Bart decides, looking the other boy up and down in what he hopes is a subtle gesture. He's painfully pretty, and it was definitely Satan.

Mr. Cashier is looking at him with unconcealed apathy. Bart's hands are itching to ruffle his messy hair. He doubts Mr-Pretty-Cashier will appreciate it though, so Bart focuses on tapping his foot instead of the baby, blue eyes that are…_oh no—_

Glaring at him.

"Yes!" Bart says, slightly panicked because what did he just agree to? Can he ask again? How do you phrase '_Sorry, I didn't catch that, I was too busy getting lost in your eyes, any chance you would repeat it? Slowly? You know, in a way my last two brain cells can process,'_ delicately? "Yup. You caught me. How'd you know?"

Mr. Cashier—Tim! His name tag says Tim— gestures to the conveyor belt like it should be obvious. "Wild guess."

"That obvious, huh?" Bart doesn't think it's obvious, but, then again, he misses a lot of social cues, this is probably just one of them. Before he can stop himself, or even register what he's offering, Bart's mouth is moving, and words are coming out. "You should stop by after your shift. It'll be totally awesome."

Tim's quiet for a moment, a puzzled look that's plain adorable settling over his face for a solid minute as he drags a box of Bart's favorite Pop-Tarts over the scanner. He'll have to remember to hide those, he shares the frosted strawberry ones with no man. Oh, and the creamsicle Twizzlers, those are prime real estate.

"Yeah, sure," Tim says, eyes lingering on the caramel kisses. Bart would usually horde those too, but Tim's pretty enough for him to make an exception. If he's honest, and generally Bart does try to be, Tim's pretty enough to get all the kisses. Even the non-confectionery ones. "I can come over. I get off at ten. What time are you guys starting?"

Ten is one hour, twenty-seven minutes, and God knows how many seconds away, there is no way, not in heaven, or hell, or even West Texas he can round up all his friends, explain his very big mistake, and get everything swinging in that amount of time. "Midnight?"

Midnight, midnight sounded better didn't it? Cooler than admitting to being nineteen and living in a college town with no plans on a Friday night for oh, the ever-expansive, foreseeable future.

"Midnight?" Tim lifts an eyebrow like he doesn't believe for a second that Bart's the type to stay out past the bus turn over, which, fair. Night buses are terrible, and second shift is the absolute last shift _anyone_ should ever use public transportation on.

"Yup." There's no going back now, Bart's dug his own grave and this is his favorite Walmart, or, at least the closest one. He's not going to drive an extra twenty minutes just to escape his shame. No this is much simpler. "It's going to be a rave, so bring your best Kandi."

If possible, Tim's eyebrow goes even higher as he gives Bart a thorough once over, not bothering to pretend to be subtle about it. His expression settles into something that resembles incredulity. Bart understands, he does!

His Nasa pajamas and Gotham University hoodie do little to capture the aesthetic of a true raver. Mostly because he has, in fact, never attended a rave, let alone hosted one. Bart likes raves though, they're fast enough, chaotic enough, to match the pace his brain usually works at.

Bart also likes Kandi. Kandi is cute and making it has just enough sensory stimulation to keep him invested. He's made a lot of Kandi over the years, he's kept it, too. Which will be a blessing when he extorts his friends into coming over and dressing up in the name of getting him a date.

There are so many worse causes than the Single-Twink-Bart-Allen foundation. So many.

Tim rings up his total, then looks over his shoulder, and very deliberately stands in front of the camera, effectively blocking the view of the register with his back. He brings a finger to his lips, the side of his mouth quirking up ever so slightly as he swipes a green card through the reader.

"Wow." The total goes down by thirteen dollars fifty-six cents, and if Tim's looks hadn't _already _sold Bart, his magical discount card would have. "Wait," Bart says, remembering himself. "Won't you get in trouble for doing that?"

Tim shrugs. "Consider it my contribution to the party you're letting me crash."

"Pretty sure you can't crash a party you're invited to," Bart says, loading his groceries into his cart. He's just about to leave, the lady behind him has sighed no less than three times in the last minute, yes he's counted, and there's a line forming behind her, but, well—"You mind giving me your number? So I can text you the address—my address—for the party."

"I was wondering how you expected me to get there," Tim laughs. It's an unfairly attractive laugh, Bart's poor gay heart really can't take it. "Fortunately." And this time, when Tim reaches out, handing a folded receipt over to Bart, there's a smirk on his lips. "I already wrote my number down. Text me."

"Yeah," Bart says, dumbly, because Tim's smirk firmly killed one of his last two brain cells, and the sole survivor is trying and failing to revive its friend. "Yeah, I'll text you! Come by whenever."

* * *

Bart makes it exactly five feet out into the parking lot before he realizes that he never told the pretty cashier his name.

He's proud that he makes it a whole two minutes thirty-two seconds before calling Conner.

This might not seem impressive, but he managed to check his mirrors and buckle his seat belt before freaking out. Safety first, crisis later.

Conner picks up on the third ring.

"Conner? Conner! Listen, I know this is crazy, but you know I am a very, _very _weak gay, and this is nowhere near the most desperate thing I've done in the name of my non-existent love life. I met this cute cashier today, and he's coming over a later, so I need you to call as many of our friends as possible and get them to come over, we're throwing a rave and not above blackmail."


End file.
